Down from the Gallows
by lembas7
Summary: The jig is up, the news is out. He's finally found them. Sequel to 'Rearview'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Supernatural, I would drop out of college. I haven't. Therefore, I don't.

**A/N:** Set post AHBL2. Title and summary and inspiration from Styx's _Renegade_. Follows 'Rearview'. And yeah, I should actually _finish_ that before posting this, but whatever.

**Summary:** The jig is up, the news is out. He's finally found them. Follows 'Rearview'

* * *

DOWN FROM THE GALLOWS

_Gotcha._

Victor let the phone slip triumphantly into its cradle, and snagged his notes. _Parts for a 1967 Chevy Impala, cherry black, with a man fitting the description of the older Winchester brother bringing it in._

Tracking the serial-killing duo across America had been difficult, with no names on record and both of them keeping their heads low. Tracking their car was easier. _Plates don't match._ But then again, he was well aware that they weren't stupid.

_Just psychotic._

One arm in his jacket, he slammed through the door of his office. "Hey, Shane!"

A head covered in orange waves poked up from behind stacks of computer print-outs. The computer-guru-turned-band-groupie grinned. "What, you got a lead?"

"I got better than that," Victor shrugged his suit jacket over the holsters, weighted with handguns under each arm, straightening his collar. "I got 'em."

"No way!"

"Call the team together," Henriksen ordered. "I want to be gone within the hour."

"Where to?" Excitement threaded the words, and Victor could see Shane twitching from across the room.

"New Britain, Connecticut."

"Huh." Tongue poking a bulge in his cheek, Shane rounded his desk. "They've steered clear of the cities, haven't they?"

_Since St. Louis, the only time they've been seen is Milwaukee. _And the gap between those appearances was _months_ long. They didn't have time to waste. "Yeah." Victor nodded to him, one palm circling the chill doorknob. "I'm gonna go talk to Zini. Get Taylor and Rubins and tell them to pack the equipment, call ahead to New Britain's police for support. I want the Winchesters in custody _yesterday_."

Shane was already sweeping papers – evidence, data, references – into a folder, and Victor knew he'd be packing his equipment up next. "How long do we have?"

"Transmission gave out." Henriksen could taste victory, and let his grin show it.

Shane whistled. "Damn. On a classic like that -"

"They're going to be in town for at least three days, between waiting for parts and the repair, even if it's a rush job." _Which they'll make damn sure it is._

"And you wanna see what they get up to," Shane settled the folder down, reaching to disconnect his laptop.

_Just to collect a bit more evidence._ "I want to know why they're there in the first place." Victor let the door swing shut, moving through the halls of the Hoover building toward the director's office.

Didn't wait, and barely knocked, before slamming in.

"This had better be good." Dark eyes in olive skin sparked hot enough to burn. Rose Zini, director of the Criminal Investigations branch of the FBI, glared at him over a pile of papers bigger than his head.

_Shit. _Henriksen tried a smile.

Zini's expression darkened. "What is it?"

Okay, hell with the niceties. "I got a solid lead on the Winchesters. I want to take a team out, gather some surveillance and bring them in."

"Where?" A hand stretched out for the notes he was carrying; Victor passed them off without a blink.

"New Britain, Connecticut."

Brown eyes scanned the pages for a short, silent moment. One brow lifted. "Your lead is car parts?" Skepticism _zing_ed through the office.

"There about two dozen places in the US that regularly order parts for classic car restoration and repair," Victor shot back. Kept his eyes on hers, meeting the challenge there. "Of those, there are four that regularly place orders for parts for 1967 Chevy Impalas; Tony's Garage in Salt Lake City, Classic Restorations in LA, Singer Auto Salvage in some nothing town in South Dakota, and Johnny Wheels in Manhattan. This place -" he turned his head a little to read off the paper, "- Adam's Autos – isn't on either list."

"And?"

"And most people who do their own restoration don't have a problem ordering parts to their permanent home address," Victor answered. Tucked his hands in his pockets, confident. Restoring or fixing a classic vehicle was a lot of things, but _cheap_ wasn't one of them. "Also, I called the place. Got a pretty good description of the guy who brought her in. Caucasian male, around six foot, brown-on-green. Knew a hell of a lot about the problems with the car, gave strict instructions for what he wanted done."

Zini handed the notes back. "It's not a solid lead."

"It's a hell of a lot better than you're willing to admit." Victor kept his voice even. "It's good enough for us to check it out."

A sigh told him he'd won; Henriksen was smart enough to give no acknowledgment of the fact. Zini was already pulling fresh paperwork from one drawer, to authorize the field team, use of equipment, and travel expenses. "How long?"

"Three days, at this point. Shouldn't be longer than a week on the outside."

Her pen glided over the form, filling in names, dates and numbers with the ease of long familiarity. "And who's coming with you?"

"Shane Thomas, Cyber Division. Taylor Hirsch from the Lab Division and Kevin Rubins from Law Enforcement Services. Kevin's calling ahead to get New Britain's PD informed."

"Good," Zini grunted. The form got stamped, and extended for his signature. Gripping the pen, Victor scrawled his name hastily and slipped the paper into her Outbox for messaging to take for processing. "Get out of here," she ordered. "You've got ten days."

* * *

"Son of a bitch!"

Despite his anger, the look his brother was casting back at the garage was a mix of worried and mournful. _It's not funny. _They depended on the car for everything – transportation, storage. _Still . . . _Sam snickered.

Dean scowled, slamming a punch at his shoulder.

Sam ducked a little too late. Turning from the garage, he headed down sunny sidewalk that would eventually lead them to Broad Street. New Britain was the closest thing to a city they'd come to since Milwaukee, and he'd missed the bustle of people. _Too bad we're here on a job._ That the transmission had gone was just Winchester luck striking again.

"I don't like leaving her there. And I gotta call Bobby; get him to ship the parts here. It's gonna be _days_ before she's running again." Dean sounded downright morose.

_Her?_ Sam shook his head. _Distract him now, or he'll be going on like this for hours._ Rounding a corner into the heart of New Britain's Polish community, Sam started looking for a place to eat. "So. The case."

Dean grunted.

"We should probably talk to the stable owners first thing."

"If the police haven't already," his brother pointed out, eyes caught by an authentic sausage stand and the savory smells it was giving off, detectable fifteen feet away. Sam watched as the portly, white-bearded man behind it handed off a thick sausage, wrapped in fluffy bread and loaded with pickles, ketchup, mustard, and onions to a little girl with pigtails.

He wasn't surprised when Dean veered off toward the stand, digging in his wallet for bills with a grin. "You want one?"

_Does smell good._ A rumble from his stomach agreed. "Sure," Sam stuffed both hands in the pockets of his jeans. It was warm enough to go without a jacket, but the cloying heat of summer hadn't yet descended on this part of Connecticut.

"_Dzień dobry_," the old man offered as they got to the front of the line.

"_Wzajemnie_," Sam stumbled over the pronunciation, earning a baffled glance from his brother and a wide, yellow-toothed smile from the vendor. "Two, please." Caught the affront in green eyes, and amended the order. "Better make that three."

He watched, fascinated, as the man lined up the buns, rapidly slipping the sausages into each paper-wrapped bed of bread, expertly pouring the toppings on. Nearby, under one of the trees lining Broad Street, the little girl with the pigtails was perched on a bench next to a man who could only be her father. A giggle hit his ears as mustard spilled down the front of her dress.

Sam grabbed at the napkin dispenser as Dean exchanged money for food, giving the vendor a smile. Then he had to take two long steps to catch up to his brother, who had turned away with a genial nod. "Dude, give."

The fattest of the sausages was pushed his way; Dean bit into his with a delirious moan.

After the first spicy-delicious bite, Sam insisted on a bench and shoved half the napkins at his big brother. _Oh my God. So good. _

Wooden slats pressing against his back, legs stretched into the sidewalk, Sam listened to the muffled, happy grunts coming from his right. They ended up splitting the last sausage.

Stomach pleasantly full, he settled back in the shade with a sigh. "So."

Dean burped.

Sam's nose wrinkled. _Gross._

"Six homeless guys dead," his brother said, eyes moving lazily up and down the street, wiping the napkins over mouth and chin. "Reports from the hospital say they were run down."

"By _horses,_" Sam pointed out. _Details._

"In the middle of the night," Dean grumbled, tossing stained napkins at the trash. "In the middle of the city."

Sam lobbed his own balled-up napkins into the bin. "It's pretty friggin' weird."

"I'll say," his brother snorted. "New Britain's not exactly known for its equestrian centers."

Sam frowned, a thought tickling the back of his brain. A hot breeze combed sweaty locks back from his face. "You think it could be a Horseman?"

"It's not the Equinox or Solstice, is it?" Dean shook his head. "They ride three days before and after the celebration, cutting down the wicked, right? We'd have to find out more about the victims."

_Oh, right._ "But it's not the right time of year," Sam muttered. _Damn._

"Might as well check." Dean pushed up from the bench. Sam heard the crackle of vertebrae as his brother arched, stretching. One knee popped in sympathy as he stood. "Stable or morgue?"

Sam held out a fist, willing to negotiate. "Winner calls."

Brown spikes nodded. "Deal."

_One, two, three – _Shaking his fist the final time, Sam kept his fingers closed in the sign for 'rock'. And stared at the flat sheet of Dean's 'paper,' mouth open.

"'Always with the scissors,' huh?"

A groan pushed past his lips at the smirk curling over his brother's face.

"You take the stables," Dean rolled his shoulders. "I've got the morgue."

Realization hit Sam even as he agreed. _Doesn't want me thinking about it._ And for a few hours, he'd almost forgotten that his brother was a dead man walking, clock ticking down to D-Day. _And I still don't know how to break the deal –_

"Sam?" Worried green eyes were scanning his face.

Sam pulled his features into neutrality. "Yeah, I'll meet you back at the motel in a few hours?"

Concern faded, just a little, but the scrutiny didn't end. "Sure. Call me if anything comes up."

"You too," Sam nodded, stepping toward the curb. _Need a cab._ But he watched, out of the corner of his eye, as his brother headed down the street toward the city center and police station.

* * *

"I got him."

_"Maintain distance," _came the voice in her ear. _"Follow, but be careful, Taylor."_

"Got it," she murmured back, keeping her eyes trained on the figure that had just slipped out of Adam's Autos. Tall, handsome, and deadly, looking not much different from the mug shot she'd scanned in the surveillance van playing at being AC Installation for the apartment complex across the street.

Winchester took off down the sidewalk, gait relaxed and unhurried.

_He doesn't know he's being followed._ In all likelihood, he didn't know the FBI was there. But it only took one mistake._ Be careful. Victor said the dad was a real paramilitary._

John Winchester's service record spoke for itself. His son's crimes attested to the fact that he'd taught them everything he knew.

Taylor kept a reasonable distance back. Shane was backing her up in the van, Kevin carrying concealed and shadowing them on the other side street.

Winchester was slipping a cell phone from one pocket.

"I'm getting closer," she murmured, knowing the mike would pick up her voice for Shane, Kev and Victor.

_"Kev says watch it," _Shane relayed. Behind her, the noise of the van's engine starting told her that Victor was behind the wheel and intending to follow.

She sped up a little as the older Winchester pressed a button and brought the phone to his ear. Carefully pointed the tiny microphone his way, hoping the signal was clear enough.

"No," she made out, getting close enough to overhear. "I talked to Justyna. Her brother was clean. No drugs, crime, nothing. Just an old guy living in a box on New Pearl Street. Any luck at the shelter?"

_"I got it, Taylor, doing good."_

Awesome. She wasn't thrilled about risking her life for nothing.

There was a long pause as the brother spoke. When he finally opened his mouth, Winchester radiated disbelief. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me."

A pause.

Taylor fell back, just a little, pretending to fumble in her purse as he passed by a long, reflective window.

"Yeah, I know it fits. But come on, a _polevik_? Where the hell are we going to find a rooster here?"

_What?_ Taylor frowned, adjusting the white leather purse strung over her shoulder. _Okay, talking in code._ But why would they do that if they thought they were alone? _This is not good._

"I'll see you back at the motel then. Yeah, I got it. Gimme an hour."

The phone snapped shut, Winchester picking up the pace now that he had somewhere to be. As he rounded the corner she caught a glimpse of his face, and anger welled up. _Real ladykillers, both of them_. Too literally.

And steadily branching out, it seemed. In the two days since Victor had yanked the team together and flown them all north out of DC, they'd been whirled through the city, pinning down locations for the garage and all the cheap motels in the area, scanning local news for any sort of serial killing that would mark the Winchester brothers' arrival in town.

_And eight homeless men dead sound close enough to serial murders for me._

Blonde ponytail bouncing against her neck, Taylor was careful to slide into groups of people, hiding herself from the occasional backward glances Winchester tossed over one shoulder. The city was always crowded, even more so with the beautiful summer weather drawing people out-of-doors. Fluttering foreign syllables were heavy on the air; the Polish community had laid claim to most of New Britain and nowhere was it more evident than Broad Street.

It was when they turned off the main road and onto smaller streets that tracking him got tricky. Several times Kevin kept up with him from the opposite side of the street while she lagged, not wanting to be noticed.

When Winchester ducked into a pet store, though, she had to walk straight on by.

_"Just go around the corner, we'll pick you up."_ Victor was now on live feed as well. Intense as he could be, his voice still grounded her. _"Kevin'll take over from here. Good job, Taylor."_

"I should hang back," she argued, voice low. "Find out what he's after, when he gets out."

A moment of silence as she counted off heartbeats.

_"Fine,"_ Victor sighed.

Stifling her grin, Taylor slipped into the Hallmark next door, pretending to peruse the cards in the window while keeping one eye on the street. Fifteen minutes later Winchester, black t-shirt stark against the colorful crowds, stalked by with a white bag in one hand.

She gave it another five minutes, and then replaced the card.

The pet store was part of a large chain, supplying the prospective animal-owner with everything ranging from parakeets to ferrets to geckoes. Hedgehogs curled into prickly balls behind glass as she passed straight to the register. "Excuse me," Taylor smiled.

The kid behind the counter eyed her – five foot three, blonde hair, curvy and dressed like a teen – and apparently liked what he saw. "Can I help you, Miss?"

"I hope so," she smiled, leaning forward a little. Bare arms folded on the countertop, close enough to make him flush underneath long, greasy hair dyed goth-black. _Time to play dumb blonde._ "You see, my cousin came to visit us this weekend. And he's always pulling these awful pranks on me and my sister – one time, he switched the Spam with cat food – it was awful!" Taylor wrinkled her nose up, and pulled a horrified, despondent face.

The kid nodded uncertainly, but blue eyes were still trained on her.

_"Nice one," _Shane laughed in her ear.

"And I saw him leave here just now and I _know_ he's up to something again. I was hoping you could tell me what he bought, so I'd know before he tried to feed it to us or something."

"The guy who just left?" the kid clarified.

She had him. _Hook, line and sinker._ "Yeah," blonde hair bounced as she nodded, trying not to lay it on too thick. "Black shirt, tall, brown hair."

"Oh, yeah," and the nod was accompanied now by a masculine grin. _Oh, my knight in shining armor._ Taylor resisted the urge to snicker. "Yeah, you were right to be worried, Miss. He bought a toad."

"Oh, _eeeewwww_," she squealed, all little-girl disgust and batting eyelashes even as _"A toad? What the hell?"_ beamed into her ear. "Thank you so much," she gushed. "I have to call my sister and let her know she was right. Listen, if he comes back, please don't tell him I was here? I don't want him to know I'm on to him."

The kid grinned past a smattering of acne, nodding his head. "Of course not, Miss. I wouldn't tip him off or nothing."

Taylor smiled. "Thank you." _Might as well give him a little incentive._ Quick as a wink, she pressed across the counter and gave him a little lingering kiss on the cheek.

_"Well played," _Shane snickered over the wire. _"Taylor Hirsch, FBI Agent, and pet store checkout-boy heartthrob."_

Waving and fumbling in her purse through the glass door, Taylor muttered, "I deserve an _Oscar_ for that one."

_"Yes, you do."_ Shane was still grinning, she could _hear_ it.

Out on the street, she directed sandaled feet to where she'd last seen Winchester. "You owe me dinner. I want wine and crème brûlèe."

_"Prime stakeout food."_

Ugh, she _hated_ stakeouts. Dodging a few giggling teens, Taylor stalked down the sidewalk, eyes searching for the surveillance van. "How's it going?"

_"Kevin's got him, down on Garth Street. Nearest motel is the White Oak Inn."_

If she cut down this block and then took Locust to Arch, she should be able to follow it down to the Inn. _I hope._ "I'll meet you there," she told Shane, knowing Victor was on the line with Kevin. No matter how much those two sparked against one another, they did brilliant work, pushing one another to do their best.

_"Just let me know if you get lost."_

The next turn put her within sight of Arch Street, and Taylor felt secure enough in her own sense of direction to snark back, "You better have my crème brûlèe waiting."

A low chuckle filtered through the earpiece.

Fifteen minutes of fast walking and shortcuts meant that she was leaning against a deli across the street when Winchester rounded the corner and walked through the motel's parking lot, disappearing behind a door numbered 17. Kevin sidled up to her, both of them ducking out of sight of the White Oak Inn as the curtains shifted in the window to Winchester's room.

Victor's voice, thrumming with satisfaction, was relayed to them all. _"Got 'em."_

* * *

Slumped in the room's rickety chair, his brother scowled at the caged crow. It fluttered black feathers, cawing irritably. "I really hope this works."

_You're not the only one._ "It stinks," Dean said flatly. Whetstone and knife moved in soothing counterpoint, keeping his hands busy. They had to wait until sundown before finding a ditch to deposit their offering in.

Sam glared from under shaggy bangs, but it was half-hearted. "It's a rooster."

Almost in response to being mentioned, an irritated squawk-cluck vibrated up from the closed wicker basket Sam had deposited in the bathroom's tub. In Sam's defense, his little brother had tried to keep the mess and smell minimal, but the rooster didn't seem to want to cooperate.

"Right. So we leave the rooster, the toad, two eggs and a crow in the basket in a ditch at dusk when no one's watching, and the _polevik_ will be appeased?"

Sam was flipping through notes he'd taken from speaking with the stable owners. "That's the legend."

The eggs were currently set out on the counter, wrapped in dirty laundry to keep them warm; the developing chicks inside were still alive, probably, but would be suffering from being out of the incubator by the time midnight came.

"Where did you get that thing, anyway?" Dean's knife pointed toward the dark bird whose cage was fighting with Sam's laptop for dominance of the small table by the room's only window.

"Konrad pointed me to the local wise-woman," Sam sighed. They'd gotten to be on friendly terms with the older man who ran the sausage-stand on Broad Street over the last two days. "Zoja Sadowski, over on Emmons Place. I told her we thought it was a _polevik_, and she found the crow. The Jagodas, who own Sunrise Stables, gave me the rooster."

_That must have been a fun cab ride. _One that they were going to reenact very soon. Dean settled back against the headboard of his bed, flipping the knife away. Checked the hands on his watch. _Fifteen minutes until sundown._ "Find a place?"

"Yeah, I think so." Blue-green scanned the laptop's screen, blinking before his brother looked up. "There's a few older roads out to the east not far from the stable where the night watchman died. I think they'll probably have ditches that will work. It's a better bet than a storm drain, anyway."

Shifting against the lumpy mattress, Dean winced. Rolled off with the _creak_ of protesting springs, to where the Impala's entire arsenal was laid out over his own bed. Having the car in the garage meant emptying her out, so there were shovels in a corner and the wooden box from the house in Lawrence carefully settled alongside Sam's duffel. It held all the important papers they had that weren't fake IDs – the acceptances from Stanford and MIT, and their pardons.

His favorite gun slid easily into his hand, magazine full. _Two knives, and another gun. Just in case._ "Get ready," he advised Sam.

Behind him, the laptop _click_ed shut. "I'll call the cab. You get the stuff?"

Dean groaned. Of course they couldn't just load everything into the large wicker basket imprisoning the rooster; the toad and eggs would be crushed before they got there, and the crow and rooster would kill one another. "Dude. So not cool."

Already on the line with the cab company, Sam just smirked.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, then opened the bathroom door. And fought the urge to gag. _Dammit!_

"C'mon, man, cab'll be here in five."

Green eyes scowled at the rooster's basket, wicker shaking as the bird moved inside. _Real funny, Sam._ "Ugh." Dean hefted the smelly collection of sticks and bird, keeping it as far from his body as possible. _At least we don't have to load all this crap into the Impala._ One booted foot kicked the door shut behind him. "You set?"

Sam was packing the rest of their arsenal away, out of easy sight. The nod told him Sam had a gun and two knives on him.

Dean settled the cage on the floor by the door, ignoring the indignant bird-noises issuing from the inside. The crow went alongside, and the two eggs were nestled carefully in the bag with the toad's box, ready for the ride.

Cloth sailed his way; he snagged the shirt before it hit the ground, nodding to Sam. Warm enough to go without, but it would hide nicely the gun tucked at his back. "You're _sure_ it's a _polevik_?"

"Night guard at the stables had a habit of visiting the pub before work, drinking too much, and falling asleep on the job," Sam recited, zipping the duffle closed. "He was murdered at the stable. Since then, homeless guys have been run down every night and killed. Coroner's report showed trauma – broken bones, marks – the size and shape of horses' hoof-prints."

The weapons bag hit thin carpet that once was white; long arms tucked it securely under Sam's bed.

"Okay, okay, jeez. But if this doesn't work – you're washing the Impala. For a month."

His brother's calm didn't waver. "It'll work."

_Beeep! Beeep!_

"And that's our ride."

Green eyes glared balefully at the rooster's basket. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

"What the hell are they doing?"

Shane directed the long-range camera, switched over to nightvision, to zoom and focus. _And . . . yes! _Leaning over his shoulder, Victor tapped the fingers of one hand restlessly against the tiny metal table edging out from under the equipment bolted to the sides of the surveillance van.

Knee-deep in a ditch, he could see the two brothers struggling with the basket, cages and box they'd carted out of the motel and into a cab. _Wonder how much they had to pay the cabbie to get him to shut up and drive?_

"Beats me." _And what the hell's a _polevik

When they'd left their room for food in a diner two blocks away, Shane and Kevin had jimmied their way in to set bugs and hidden cameras throughout. But the conversation they'd gathered so far made zero sense.

_Man, I hate going after the crazies._ Everyone was so much twitchier when the perps were psycho. No one knew which way they'd jump, and _nuts_ didn't automatically translate to _stupid_, more the pity.

"Can we get any sound?"

Shane tweaked three different dials, coaxing his babies, but . . . _Not at this range._ "Too far," he explained, shaking long orange strands back from his face. "Too much interference." A plague's worth of crickets between van and ditch, gumming up any chance to pick something up. "Looks like they're done."

Victor's eyes were fixed on the duo climbing onto the road and turning back down the way they'd come. "They're walking back?"

Shane shrugged. "It was what, fifteen minutes by cab, forty-miles-an-hour max? That's an hour by foot, just about."

"Unless they get up to something in the meantime."

All the victims had been killed at night.

"Well, then, it's a good thing I slipped trackers into all the clothes I can find, isn't it?" Smug confidence warmed his blood; Shane flipped the switch to bring up another monitor – this one GPS, and sure enough –

"That's them?"

"One of 'em," Shane nodded at the soft, blinking yellow dot on the screen. In the corner of the screen vibrated a cadre of the small dots, still at rest in the empty motel room of the White Oak Inn. Fingers flew, parsing signals and shutting them away, one by one, until the only one left was the dot drifting slowly down the deserted road they were parked on. "That's the older Winchester. Dean." _The dangerous one._

"Good."

Not that the younger brother wasn't equally as dangerous – his size ensured that. But Sam seemed to be more the planner, the mind behind their killings and odd ventures like this one.

Victor shifted back then; Shane heard the shuffling as he settled in for a long wait. "Call Kevin and Taylor. Let them know it's going to be awhile."

His cell flipped open, speed-dial at the ready. "Sure thing, Vic."

* * *

It was almost one in the morning before they made it back to the motel. Sam trudged in last, kicking free of sludge-encrusted boots. _At least most of it came off when we were walking._

"Go get cleaned up," his brother ordered.

Dean might have been the one to land on his ass in the ditch, startled when the crow burst out of its cage in a mad bid for freedom, but Sam hadn't slept the night before. _Too tired to argue._ Dean was already wiggling free of damp jeans.

Sam kept his trip to the bathroom short, and came out to find the window gloriously wide and bugs gathering eagerly on the lampshades. "Gotta shut'n'salt it," he mumbled. Dean had already stowed their gear away, pulling out clean clothes while he waited for the shower.

"Just trying to get the smell out," was the tired answer. "Turn the A/C on, yeah?"

Sam was digging out the salt as the bathroom door shut, double-checking the locks on the door and window and being careful to keep the lines he drew thick and unbroken. Ever since the Devil's Gate and Wyoming, demons had been popping up _everywhere._ Even though this job was totally unrelated, they were near a city center and well-known to Hell's denizens. _Better safe than possessed._

He only noticed the sound of the shower once it stopped, the air conditioner's low _hmmmm_ generating enough white noise to lull him to sleep beneath the motel's scratchy sheets. A moment later, the glow behind his closed eyelids snapped into darkness as Dean hit the lights. "Night," he mumbled.

A _creak_ as his brother settled onto the other bed, sheets shifting against one another. "Go to sleep, Sam."

_

* * *

_

How much coffee has he had?

Six AM, and Kevin was switching over with Shane for surveillance. Henriksen looked like he hadn't slept, jazzed up on caffeine and twitching in the tiny metal chair bolted to the van floor in front of rows of monitors. In shades of gray, two forms slept on separate beds, shifting every so often. "Any movement?"

"Sam had a nightmare, around two," Victor shook his head. "Both of them were up for fifteen minutes, neither left the room."

_People like that get nightmares?_ Kevin snorted. _About what?_ That was a new one for him.

He didn't try to move toward the front of the van – at six-three and two hundred sixty pounds, the last thing Kevin wanted to do was squeeze himself in and not be able to get out in a hurry. Instead, he brought the warm cup close to his face, inhaling coffee fumes with contentment. _Smells sooo good._

For long moments the two of them sat in silence. It was about half an hour later before there was deliberate movement on any of the screens. Victor hissed a breath between his teeth. "And big brother's awake."

Watching Winchester get up and dressed was boring until Kevin noted the knife that went into his boot and the gun slipped at his back. _That's some intense hardware for breakfast._ Which was apparently his goal; the cameras hidden on the van's exterior tracked him as he crossed from the White Oak Inn's parking lot to the deli across the way, disappearing inside. He was out less than ten minutes later with a bag and two cups of coffee, plus a paper tucked under one arm.

Kevin kept his eyes on the room. "The other one's up." Interested, he watched as Sam Winchester found the hastily-scribbled note his brother had left, the visible wariness receding with the discovery, and yanked on some clothing. Victor kept tabs on the older brother, but the two goals intersected soon enough as the motel door opened.

_"Sammy, we've got a problem."_

_Oh, shit._ Kevin tensed. No telling what that could mean. _At least the audio's clear._ He double-checked to make sure they were recording. Just in case.

Sam Winchester looked up, hands working shoelaces. _"What's wrong?"_

Newspaper hit crumpled sheets, but Kevin couldn't make out the headline from this camera angle. _"The offering didn't work." _

Long fingers reached for the paper, the younger brother's attention on the front page. Disbelief came over the speakers, loud and clear. _"No, we did everything right. It must have."_

_"Yeah, well, there's another homeless guy in the morgue, so _something_ went wrong."_ Frustration laced the older Winchester's voice.

Kevin felt his forehead crinkle. _What the hell?_ Someone else had died? But they'd been tracking these two since yesterday afternoon, early. _They sure as hell didn't do it._

_Then who did?_ whispered the voice of skepticism that lived in his brain.

_"Maybe it's not a _polevik," the older suggested.

_"Dean -"_

_"Yeah, I know. So what the hell happened?"_

The younger brother ran a hand through bed-messy hair. _"I don't know. The offering is supposed to be left in a ditch, with no one watching. We got the offering, left it in a ditch -"_

_"So someone was watching," _the older interrupted, voice eerily cold. _"Only question is, who?"_

"We've been made," Henriksen said tightly. Kevin was already ripping his cell phone out, calling Taylor and Shane. "I'm calling the PD. We're going in, _now_."

Over a conversation that pulled their two absent teammates from bed and into clothes and Kevlar, Kevin caught a glimpse of the monitors – and the brothers moving to their duffels, packing things away. _Shit!_

Victor snapped his phone closed. "New Britain PD will be here in three, no sirens."

"I don't think we have that much time," Kevin jerked his head at the monitors, where the brothers were moving around the room, gathering their things and digging through clothes.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Muted curses spilled from Henriksen at the sound of a fist impacting with the van's back door. "That had better be Shane, or I swear -"

An orange head shoved through the gap as the doors opened. "Let's do this thing!" the techie yelped.

_Oh God._ Blue eyes shifted to the heavens, seeking patience. Kevin lowered his gaze to the short, skinny man, who gulped.

"Get in here. _Now_," Henriksen thundered, somehow managing to keep his voice from carrying any further than the van itself.

Kevin raised a brow. _Neat trick._ Controlling and book-bound as the older agent could be, there was no denying the man's skills, and that his intensity was enough to power the toughest investigations and the best teams.

"Check your gear," Henriksen ordered. "We're going in. _Now_."

* * *

**A/N2**: Evil as it is for me to put this up before I finished the next chapter of Rearview, I had no choice. This fic blindsided me, tackling me and pinning me with threats of bodily harm until I wrote and finished it. Facts: New Britain, CT does have a significant Polish population, which I decided would fit after I settled on the polevik as my monster-of-choice. Yay to Sol for details on the small-town-city! Wikipedia was obligingly sparse on details, allowing me the freedom to do as I pleased with this baddie. Translations of the Polish in order of appearance, with much thanks to Majka because I don't know Polish:

_Dzień dobry_– Good day / hello

_Wzajemnie_– Same to you


	2. Chapter 2

"Who could have been watching?"

"Man, all it would take would be someone out for a late jog or a wandering hobo or someone checking up on the stable," Sam dragged the weapons duffle from under the bed, moving to the bathroom to scoop up the last of their stuff. They weren't heading out just yet, but they needed to make a laundry run sooner rather than later.

Dean zipped his own duffle closed, eyeing the relatively small pile of clothes in need of a wash. _I wonder if Justyna would let us borrow her machine?_ And they needed to find out if they could make the offering again, and what to do if it was a one-time-only deal. "Sam, do you have -"

_SLAM!_

The door exploded off its hinges, splinters flying and sunshine bursting in around the shouting, rifle-wielding bodies in black. "HANDS UP!"

"_Down! On your knees!_"

"_On the floor, now!_"

"_Hands where we can see them!_"

_Wh – _Dean froze, mind racing. Slowly, his hands came up, green eyes flying to see Sam copying his every move.

Unforgiving steel locked around his wrists, braceleting them together behind his back as he was forced face-first onto filthy carpet. Hands brushed over him, relieving him of the gun at his back and the knives secreted at forearm and ankle. Someone was snarling Miranda rights in his ear – and then he heard a voice he recognized from the other end of a phone line in Milwaukee, and a California prison's interrogation room.

"Well. Looks like you've been busy, Dean."

_Oh fu-_

"Get them out of here," Henriksen ordered. Dean could almost see the man's triumph, riding high over the unveiled disgust shooting at his brother and him.

_Dammit, Hammond said he was going to take care of this!_

Strong hands hauled him to his feet and out of the motel room; the clomping of feet behind him reassuring Dean that Sam was just over his shoulder. Outside the motel, three black-and-whites and two more unmarked cop cars were blocking off the open parking lot. Heads poked out of doors up and down the row of rooms. _Great._

"Separate cars." Henriksen was shorter than Dean, dark skin flush with victory and covered, like the rest of his team, in Kevlar. A hand on his head roughly shoved him down and into the caged backseat of the police car.

He spared a glance at the rearview mirror, and saw unforgiving eyes staring back from the cop in the front seat. Dean couldn't twist to check on Sam, find out where his little brother was. Couldn't give them that weakness, even though it gnawed his soul not to know.

_We are _so_ screwed._

* * *

"Damn, we're good." Kevin Rubins kicked back, balanced on two chair legs by the feet he'd propped up on some displaced detective's desk. Hands folded behind his head, the only way he could have looked more comfortable was if he was popping the tab on a beer.

"Don't celebrate just yet," Victor shot him a glare. "We've got the evidence, the motel room, the car, and _them -_" Miranda rights and all, "- but we _don't_ have a confession yet." Despite keeping the brothers in separate cars, separate cells on opposite sides of the jail, and providing separate council for what had been politely termed 'questioning.' _It was an interrogation and they both knew it._

The younger brother was proving a problem, with his prelaw knowledge, and the older had given them nothing but attitude after insisting on getting his phone call. The kid was an impossible punk on top of being a hardened felon.

But not, apparently, the murderer here.

_We had surveillance on them all night. They didn't kill Gary Nowak._ The ninth homeless man to be found bleeding out over the concrete of New Britain's cracked sidewalks had died while the Winchesters played in a ditch a good two-hour walk away. Those charges would be dropped, no question – at least they still had Milwaukee and St. Louis to keep the bastards from posting bail and disappearing. _Not that they'd have the money. Still._

"Ahhh, lighten up," Rubins blew a raspberry his way. "We've got them, and their friggin' _arsenal._ They're not going anywhere."

Irritation scratched up and down Victor's nerves. "Forget about Folsom so soon?"

It was gratifying to see how quickly the former college linebacker shut up. Not that he wanted to dwell on that disaster much either – they'd been in lockdown, and then they were _out._

"You dropped the ball on that one, not me," Rubins shot back.

He unclenched his jaw enough to squeeze the words out. "And it's not going to happen again," Victor said forcefully.

"Right." But it was less a snort and more determined, even if Rubins didn't bother to put his feet on the ground.

Victor kind of wished Shane and Taylor were there; it would help him keep his distance from his irritating coworker. But their sleep-shift had been interrupted by the coup, so they were reclaiming lost hours now.

_How in the hell did they know we were watching them?_

Something he'd make sure to find out after they cracked and confessed. Victor didn't fool himself that it would be easy, but it would _definitely_ be worth it.

He was leaning over an inventory of evidence from the motel room when the cell phone at his hip vibrated. "Henriksen."

"Agent Henriksen. This is General George Hammond, United States Air Force." Victor snapped upright, jaw dropping. The voice on the other end of the line continued. "I understand you have Dean and Sam Winchester in custody."

_Just who the hell did they call?_

"Yes, General." Victor waved Rubins down; the man's mouth had opened at the title. With one hand he snatched up a pen, searching for blank paper. "They were brought in this morning, and charged with crimes in -"

"St. Louis and Milwaukee, yes, I'm aware."

_Gen. George Hammond?_ Victor wrote, turning the paper to Rubins. Blue eyes lit up, and he whipped out his cell, hissing lowly for Shane to pick the hell up, already. _I knew there was a reason I worked with him._

"However, I'm afraid that there's some information regarding the Winchesters that you may be unaware of."

"And what might that be?" Until he got confirmation, there was _no way_ he would believe this call was anything other than a hoax. And General or not, the Winchesters were _guilty._

"They've been pardoned."

"What? What do you mean, 'pardoned'?" _Don't you have to be convicted before you've been pardoned? And pardoned by whom, exactly?_ They would have heard something about this if it was true. So, lying then.

Rubins had finally gone silent, a good indication that Shane was chattering his ear off on the other end of the line.

"Exactly what it sounds like. They've been declared innocent by the President of the United States."

_The President –_ No. No way. If they thought he was going to fall for that . . . "According to the evidence I have in front of me, they're guilty as hell," Victor said bluntly. _What the high holy hell is going on?_

"You're lacking in crucial details that would make the situation clearer," the man on the other end kept his cool. "I'd like to enlighten you, but that's classified information. For now, I'll settle for you letting them go."

_Right. _His hand spasmed around the pen, plastic digging into Victor's palm. _Classified? That's convenient._ "Not gonna happen."

Rubins was waving a hand at him; an irritated _harrumph _hit his ear through the phone line. Victor covered the receiver. "What?"

Blue eyes were grave. "There is a General George Hammond in the Air Force. Clearance higher than God's, but Shane says he heads up a 'Project Bluebook', whatever that is. He's tapped to your phone and tracing the call now."

"Very well." Irritation had deepened the voice on the other end – and that more than anything else indicated military to Henriksen. Nothing pissed them off more than not being obeyed. Instantly. "I'm sending my people to you. You'll be getting a call from your supervisor."

If he thought they'd actually go through with it, Victor would be more worried. "In that case I'll be sure to keep my phone on," he replied snidely.

The response was a cold "Good day," and the _click_ of a phone hanging up.

_Was he on the line long enough?_ Victor nodded at the cell in Rubin's hand; the man was already shaking his head, buzzed blond catching the light. "Shane lost it."

Settling back into his appropriated chair, Victor shrugged. "We'll look into it later." They had the Winchesters – that was the biggest step. Taking down their support was only clean-up; he could wait to get to it.

* * *

She'd never met anyone who found trouble more easily than the Winchesters. _Hmmm. Maybe Daniel._ "Why are we doing this again?"

Said archaeologist was climbing out of the cab right behind her, tugging at one cuffed sleeve. He glanced up, grinning a little. "Because no matter how much you and Dean pick at one another, we're on the same side."

"We don't 'pick at' each other," Sam grumbled, adjusting her skirt and becoming Major Carter. It was a lot more like the squabbles she and Mark had had when they were kids. _He'd better damn well appreciate this._ She'd had to leave in the middle of a time-critical experiment, and it wasn't that Dr. Driscol couldn't complete it – it was that _she_ wanted to be there. Sam wouldn't have a problem doing this for the younger Winchester, but his older brother was another story. _Smirking, crude, irritating – _

Colonel O'Neill had his moments of blockheadedness, but she'd never seen anyone take it to the level Dean seemed to inhabit. _Kind of impressive, when he's not being a complete pain in the – _

"Yes, you do," Daniel said calmly, dress shoes tapping on concrete as he moved to bend through the cab's window, digging for the correct amount. "You do have a lot in common -"

"I swear, if the next thing you say is 'why can't you two just get along', I'm going to -"

Daniel laughed brightly as the yellow car pulled into traffic, and Sam couldn't help her answering smile. She sighed, giving the police station an assessing glance. Checked one more time to be sure she had her briefcase, securely latched, and holding the important papers, CDs, and electronic documentation that would prove them to Henriksen. "Let's just get this over with."

_

* * *

_

Okay, bored.

At least in Folsom, they'd been busy working the case. New Britain's lockup was dingy and cramped, a remnant of the small-town it had been before people overflowed and turned the area into something that wasn't quite a city.

Sam dropped his head back against the wall with a painful _thunk._ There were only so many times he could go over his own legal defense and his brother's without getting stuck on the key point that, oh yeah, they were _innocent._

_Damn NID._

He didn't know a whole lot about the rogue organization, but he knew enough to be sure that they were gumming up the works once again. _Most things the SGC wants, the NID doesn't, _he remembered Daniel grumbling. _Or they want to use a different means to achieve similar ends._

So naturally if the SGC was trying to get the brothers Winchester exonerated, the NID would be on the opposite side, slowing the beaurocracy to a standstill.

_Like it's not slow enough already._ The only way to speed things up at this point was to go public – which wouldn't happen, for many obvious reasons.

He was counting the bars on his cell when the door opened, and an irritated FBI agent walked in. "I just talked to your brother," Henriksen snapped, which would explain his sudden arrival at Sam's cell. _And the fact that he looks like he's ready to strangle someone._ Darn those pesky regulations about police brutality.

Sam didn't bother hiding his grin. Readjusting his slouch on the stained, thin pad passing as a mattress, he tilted his head.

"I want to know where you had these forged." Thick, creamy paper shone against the jail's bright, industrial lighting.

Sam stretched, taking his time unfolding long limbs from the cot and making his way over to the cell door. On closer inspection, he folded his arms over his chest. _Our pardons. _"We didn't."

"That's not what Dean said," Henriksen tried.

A laugh burst out of Sam. "That's exactly what Dean said. You didn't find those until after Hammond called and told you to let us go, did you?" Because if there was one thing Sam knew, it was his brother – and that his brother would contact Paul if they ever got into a situation like this was as silently understood as was the fact that Sam's phone call would go to Daniel.

Henriksen was watching him in the way that all investigators had – cataloguing every movement, parsing truth from lie. Sam had been on the receiving end of that look almost as long as he'd known how to turn it back on others. He could just imagine Dean's smirk when the agent found out it was true. "So why haven't we been moved yet?" Because the first thing Henriksen should have done was get them locked so far away they wouldn't see the sun for a month.

_But he hasn't. Which means he's been ordered not to._

A good sign that help was on its way.

"Oh don't you worry about that." Henriksen accompanied the comment with a completely bland smile, oozing control.

_Uh-huh. _Sam would be more worried if he didn't have Daniel's assurance that he and Major Carter would be on a jet flying them to Hartford within the hour. _Paul might be on his way too._ Harder for the Major who worked in the Pentagon to get free, but it could happen.

_But we still have to get rid of the _polevik._ And the offering has failed, which means we won't get a second shot at appeasing it._ Hopefully they hadn't pissed it off enough to up its attacks, but even so they had to figure out a way to kill it.

"Tell you what, Sam."

_Oh, here we go again._

"I know you're not a bad kid – you're just following your brother's lead, here." Dark eyes were serious, but Sam knew the ins and outs of the good-cop, bad-cop game. "It doesn't have to go badly for you."

Anger and tiredness and fear, all circling around Dean's stupid deal and now _this_, lodged in Sam's throat in a choking knot. "All I'd have to do would be to turn on Dean, is that right," he murmured, bitter.

"You're wouldn't be -"

_No. No more. _And the younger Winchester was suddenly _furious_ at it all. Whirling, he grabbed the hem of his button-down and lifted, baring the heavy scar on his back to the FBI Agent's eyes. "You see this?" Sam demanded. "I'd be _dead_ if not for my brother." Turning, he yanked his shirt straight, glaring. _And he'll be dead because of it. I have to figure this out, and you're wasting my time._ "Get the hell out of here."

* * *

Victor was pacing, the recording of his interaction with the younger Winchester muted on the screen. "So . . . that went well," Shane offered.

Taylor glared.

The techie shrugged, mouthing _What?_

_He's gotta be doing it on purpose._ Then again, Shane could talk to computers, not people. _So dense._

"So we won't be able to divide and conquer," Kevin _crunch_ed the last bite out of his apple and leant back against the office wall, chewing loudly. "So much for the 'Prisoner's Dilemma'." Thick fingers spun the core into the trash.

Taylor rolled her eyes at the smugness that shot her way. _I'm sure Detective Carlson will be happy._ The detective whose office they'd appropriated had yet to put in an appearance – but the office was overrun now with equipment, evidence, and notes. _Wouldn't recognize it if he did._

Fingers snapping recaptured her attention. "Did you see that scar?"

"Video quality wasn't the greatest," Taylor admitted.

Keys tapped as Shane pulled up a still image. The techie's eyes were fixed on the screen, manipulating a toolbar alongside the picture. "I can clean it up some."

She leant over his shoulder, rubbing at one bleary eye. _What I wouldn't give for eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Just me, my mattress, my blankets –_ "That's impossible."

Victor's finger landed on the image. "Talk to me, Taylor."

"Tell me that's not what it looks like," Kevin sounded impressed. "Who did they piss off to get on the wrong end of _that_?"

"Thoracic region." She groped for words, trying to make some sense of the fat white line cutting across the skin concealing vertebrae and a kidney. "The thickness of that scar – his spinal cord would have been severed."

"It's a killing stroke," Kevin agreed, bumping her shoulder gently as he approached for a closer look.

"Except I got some really convincing evidence that it's not," the orange-haired techie objected. Taylor dodged as Shane threw his hands up in exasperation. "Namely, him."

"Watch it," she grumbled. Ignored the indignant huff, eyes finding Victor's. "He should be dead, if that was as deep as it looks."

Victor rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Then it couldn't have been."

From behind them came the noise of a throat clearing. Taylor jumped; Kevin and Victor spun, hands reaching for their side-arms.

"Excuse us." Polite, firm, and standing in the open doorway. Blonde hair, short and neatly combed over a uniform jacket and skirt of dark blue. Brass buttons shone, and a few ribbons decorated the woman's lapel. "Major Samantha Carter, Air Force. My colleague, Dr. Daniel Jackson."

The man behind her, tall and suited in tweed rather than Air Force blue, nodded. Azure eyes assessed them from behind round lenses, but his hair was military-short.

"FBI," Victor replied, impatient. "Not to be rude, but we're a little busy at the moment."

"Actually, that's why we're here," the woman stepped forward, lifting a leather briefcase to the cluttered desk. "General Hammond sent us."

Puzzlement wrinkled Taylor's forehead. _Who?_

_

* * *

_

_Suspicion. Wariness. Formality._

And confusion in the three other agents. If they didn't play this just right, Daniel had the sneaking suspicion that Henriksen would toss them into cells alongside Sam and Dean. And then the cavalry will need rescuing.

"Agent Henriksen," the archaeologist stepped forward. "We have some documents that we'd like to show you."

"What, no demanding that the murderers go free?" muttered the large man in the back, who looked almost as big as Teal'c.

Henriksen didn't so much as look his way. _Giving the whole team permission to be as belligerent as they want._ The woman with long honey-colored hair over a lab coat looked more confused than suspicious, and the skinny man next to the computers was poking a bulge in one cheek with his tongue.

"Here's our identification," Sam offered her Cheyenne Mountain pass; Daniel quickly did the same. "Run all the verifications that you want. They'll hold up."

Henriksen immediately passed shiny plastic to the man by the computers, saying, "Shane?"

"On it," he replied, voice surprisingly mellow. Immediately computer screens lit up, keys clacking.

"If you'll let her," Daniel interjected calmly, making eye contact with all the agents. "Major Carter will open her briefcase and show you a few more documents, and give you reports that will attest to the Winchesters' innocence."

At that, Henriksen finally responded. "'If we let her'?"

Daniel couldn't help his grin. "You've been tracking Dean and Sam Winchester. So naturally, you're expecting fake IDs no matter how high their quality, stolen identities, traps, and possible violence."

Surprise shone clearly from their computer expert, and the woman frowned before her face went blank. The other agents, probably from more experience in the field, didn't so much as twitch. _But all of a sudden there's more tension than a suspension bridge._ The only way to dispel it would be to give them time to verify Daniel and Sam's identities, and ignore the trigger-happy gleam in Henriksen's eyes.

"All right," the agent assented.

Sam was careful to turn the briefcase their way even as she opened it, displaying nothing more threatening than a file of papers.

"These are copies of the pardons issued by the President of the United States, clearing Sam and Dean of any charges of murder or accomplice to murder."

"What about the grave desecration and credit-card fraud?" the large man asked snidely, pushing off the wall to come closer.

"Agent Kevin Rubins," Henriksen introduced him even as he reached for the documents.

"We'll get to that in a minute," Daniel answered. _Gets right to the punch line, doesn't he?_

Rubins leant around Henriksen, snagging one document and holding it up to the light, checking for the official watermark that would be one way of verifying the pardon's authenticity. _Interesting dynamic._ While Henriksen was clearly the leader, Rubins challenged him where the other two in the room did not. _Team dynamics, definitely, but nothing like SG-1._

Which wasn't unexpected. But he was still intrigued by the interaction he could see – the small cues in facial expression and body language, in words spoken or held back.

As Sam was handing over the CD with the official debriefing from the skinwalker incident, declassified enough to be let out of the Mountain, Henriksen's cell phone rang.

"Excuse me."

The door had barely closed behind him when the computer guy looked up from his screens. "So. You're legit."

"You're sure?" Rubins spoke up before Daniel could respond.

"Sure as I can be, Kev. Ran it through the databases, got positive results. The IDs are the genuine article. You don't get embedded microchips at a Copy Jack. Even got some emails back to the query I sent out."

"That fast?" The woman turned to look over the screens; Daniel only noticed the CD she'd lifted from the desk when she handed it off. _Okay, so maybe more than just the scientist on the team._

"It's what they do," the orange-haired man shrugged. "And their info's good as gold." Hazel eyes flitted their way, curiosity rampant. "Project Bluebook, huh?"

Daniel gulped. Glanced at Sam, and saw the lines around her tight smile. _Um. _

The office door banged wide, letting Henriksen back in. Daniel breathed out a silent sigh.

The computer guru tilted his head, glancing back as he uploaded the information from the CD. "Yo, Vic, what is it?"

"That was Director Zini." Henriksen shut the door, and Daniel relaxed a little; the suspicion was gone from his gaze, although he was still taking their measure.

"We did get in contact with the FBI," Sam said quietly. "It was necessary to find out where you were located, and to contact your superiors to clear up the situation."

"Your security clearance has been raised," Daniel added.

"What for?" Henriksen couldn't hide his bafflement.

Daniel shifted his eyes to the computer screens, waiting as a copy of the recording of Janet's autopsy of the skinwalker began playing. Rubins sputtered. "Holy mother of God -"

Henriksen turned, got a good look at the monitor where Janet was peeling flesh-toned scraps from the gray, leathery surface beneath, taking samples of gooey connective tissue. Color leeched from the agent's skin.

Even after seeing it twice, Daniel's face twisted up in distaste. _Ew. _"For that."

* * *

"Hey."

_Friggin' finally._ He knew that voice. Dean cracked open one eye, keeping his breathing steady. Couldn't look at the bars, see them closing in, trapping him –

Daniel was standing at the cell door, while a uniformed deputy fumbled with the lock.

He waited on the opposite side of the cell until bars swung open. No point in making the cop jumpy, even if he _was_ a free man. "Where's Sam?"

"Sam – um, Major Carter's getting him," the archaeologist offered. "Jack and Teal'c couldn't make it."

Dean deliberately did not breathe a sigh of relief at that. Sauntering across the cell, he didn't miss the way the deputy's hand dropped to hover near his gun, face completely blank. He tossed a smirk the man's way, ignoring Daniel's raised brow. "Great. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

The archaeologist winced. "Actually . . ."

_I really don't like the sound of that. _Free of the long corridor partitioned by bars into boxes that looked bigger than they actually were, Dean stopped. Took in the busy police office, filled with cubicles, computers, people, and ringing phones. "What?"

"We kind of have to -"

"What Dr. Jackson is trying to say," interrupted an unknown voice, "is that all your belongings have been moved to evidence. You'll have to sign them out, and account for everything, before you can leave."

Dean turned, and came face-to-face with a guy almost as wide as he was tall. _Holy – _Assessment pulled him up short. _It's all muscle._ Green eyes narrowed. _This _was the guy who'd been manhandling his brother when they'd been arrested. _Probably hits like a piledriver. _At the glint in blue eyes, Dean readjusted his opinion . _Sneaky SOB too, I bet._ Dean could take him. Not without collecting some decent bruises and maybe a broken bone if he wasn't careful, but however smart this guy thought he was, Dean was faster. And meaner.

"Kevin Rubins," the guy stuck out his hand, smile all teeth. "FBI. But you knew that."

"Dean Winchester," he shot back, not taking the hand. Didn't bother to paste on a fake smile, despite Daniel's sigh at his back. "Not guilty. But you know that." _What a dick._

Across the open room, he saw another door open and a familiar figure step out. Tension slid out of his shoulders abruptly. Dean pulled his hands out of his pockets, sidestepping the asshole. "Sam!" Two heads turned his way.

Three steps and he met up with his brother, reading the bruised expression in blue-green eyes. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Sam said quietly.

Major Carter scowled at him as she shouldered by, halting with Daniel and the Agent. Dean ignored her.

"You're not fine," Dean kept his voice low, but he wasn't letting this go.

Overlong bangs couldn't quite hide the strain. "Can we not do this here?"

Here, with dozens of wary eyes fixed on them, not quite believing the felons dangerous enough to bring the FBI to New Britain were really innocent. _He's right._ "So. _Polevik._ Offering didn't work. Any ideas on how to kill the son of a bitch?"

Something eased in his brother; Sam leant against the wall. "When we talked to Justyna, she mentioned an old legend – a flint knife to the heart."

Justyna, the kind, motherly woman who'd taken to his brother right away, stuffing Sam full of baked goods and bestowing smiles on them both. She was the sausage-seller's wife, and had helped them when they'd explained, in a roundabout way, what they thought was going on. "A flint knife." _Where are we going to get one of those?_

"Maybe Daniel can help."

"Yeah, I hope so." Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulse behind his temple. _Friggin' great. _"'Cause next we gotta get our stuff back from Henrickson's lackeys. That's gonna be fun." _Permits. They're gonna trip us up and want to see the permits._ Which were probably in the evidence lockup too, if they'd gone through the Impala.

_If they screwed up my car, I'll let the _polevik _have 'em._

"Lackeys, huh?" Sam quirked a grin at him.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, pushing away from the wall. Rubins was giving them both the evil eye, and from an open door beyond the FBI Agent and SGC personnel, he could see the familiar form of Henriksen, bent over a desk with a few items he distinctly recognized laid neatly out on its surface.

_Son of a . . . _

Dean gathered Sam up with a glance, and circled the stiff silence that formed a bubble around Rubins, Carter and Daniel, headed for the office. He got as far as the door before Henriksen looked up, the sudden anger in his face stopping Dean in his tracks. Just for a minute.

"What do you want?"

Dean's hackles went up, spotting a set of very familiar keys. "I'll start with my car." _But right now? I'd settle for my guns, thanks._ Stalking across the room, he scooped up the metal ring, sifting through the keys carefully. _All here. Wonder if they took molds to make copies._ He wouldn't put it past them.

Dean expected some protest when he reached for the first gun, and the silence had him lifting his gaze – to find Sam trying to laser Henriksen to ashes with his eyes. Dean blinked. _Easy, tiger._ "Sam."

Blue-green shifted focus, softening.

Dean waited until his brother's gaze turned questioning; then jerked his head toward the duffels lined up against the wall. "Check your stuff, make sure everything's there. Then help me get it all together before we pull the Impala out of the impound."

The Agent's jaw clenched.

Wicked amusement spun through Dean's veins. _Can't wait to hear what he's got to say about this._ Unfortunately, Henriksen looked lost for words.

Daniel leant in the doorway, Carter just outside. "So you said it was a _polevik_?"

"Yeah," Dean was surprised to see they'd kept the loaded magazines in the weapons, though the chambers were empty and safeties on. He poked through the papers on the desk, but none of them were their research. _Gotta find that._ "Offering didn't work, thanks to Dudley Do-Right and his posse, over there. You know anywhere we can get a flint knife?"

The archaeologist scratched one eyebrow, blue eyes thoughtful. "I could make one. It might take a few hours, and I'd need a core and hammerstone. Maybe a few cores, just in case."

Dean snorted. "Flint-knapping 101. Why didn't I think of that?"

"And what would you need this for, exactly?" Henriksen's voice, cool and clear and in-command.

Sam brushed shoulders with him, holding out the open – empty – weapons duffle. Dean let him fill it, moving to look over his own and make sure nothing was missing. _Let Jackson explain._

His brother surprised Dean with the acid in his voice. "In case you haven't noticed, Agent Henriksen, people are being killed in this town."

This was like Jess all over again – Sam brimming with anger and despair and the need to _lash out_ at something. _"Man, it's not like you. I'm supposed to be the belligerent one."_ Yeah, Dean was. But this time, he couldn't help – because he knew exactly what was wrong.

_Doesn't mean I won't try._ "Sam."

Daniel stepped in, hands up. "The Winchesters are here to help, Agent Henriksen. Major Carter and I are going to lend a hand. There's a -"

"He's not going to believe us," Sam interrupted, angry resignation in every line of his body as he finished collecting and checking all their weapons. "None of them will."

"So let them come," Dean offered. In the corner of his eye he saw Sam's head whip around. "I'm not doing the whole the-truth-is-out-there spiel again. People believe what they can see with their own two eyes. And I'm pretty sure this tightwad's got enough nightmares already, job like his, that a few extra won't get noticed."

And suddenly Dean was catching glares from everyone in the room. He blinked. _What?_

_

* * *

_

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"It would be better if they were nuts," Shane muttered grumpily. Fingers plowed through his hair, massaging away the strain of being overtired. _No such luck. Man, this sucks._

"You're sure they're not?"

Taylor's befuddlement, from the woman who cared about nothing but numbers and precision and nuance, might have been funny if Shane hadn't checked their credentials. Twice. "Pretty sure," he said mournfully.

"Standing right here," the older Winchester pointed out snidely. But he didn't bother turning, instead focused on the motel wall where he and his brother had pinned up all the lose sheets of paper Shane had spent time painstakingly collecting and labeling for Evidence. There were ripped pieces tacked up as labels, papers grouped by victim and location, lines of tape drawing connections.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Shane had seen this particular brand of insanity enough to recognize the streak of genius buried in it. _What the hell is going on?_ Complete explanations had been a little thin on the ground, beyond _"There are things out there in the dark. Nightmare things. We kill them," _and he could see the annoyance on his teammates as well. _But the only reason Henriksen even let them out was because Zini called._

Yeah, there was evidence, and yeah, there were suddenly massive gaping holes in the files that would theoretically put the Winchesters away – holes in motive and chronological continuity and evidence. _Bad things happen. They show up, and the bad things stop._ The video they'd seen had been undeniable, coupled with the credibility of the source, but it still stuck in his head like science fiction rather than reality. _And I feel like I'm part of the X-Files._

It was more than a little disconcerting. _And it kinda sucks. _If Henriksen was Scully, then Shane got stuck being one of the Lone Gunman. Which, cool, but _seriously?_

The eight of them were scrunched into two adjoining rooms, both painted in a shade of reddish-brown that might have once been striking. _I think I wanna hurl._ He couldn't tell if it was the thin brown carpet or the heavy smell of gun oil, overwhelming his senses. But Shane wanted his blinking screens and comforting layers of programming.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Four hours out of lockup and you'd never even know they'd been in; he'd hidden on the sidelines, watching as they repacked their repaired car with frightening ease, catalogued everything they owned, and inventoried weapons, gasoline, shovels, salt, and various odds and ends he'd left Taylor the job of sorting out.

"So, it's got to be located near the stables, d'you think?"

"Yeah," the younger Winchester sighed, leaving the laptop open and glowing across the room. Shane's eyes narrowed, but he was angled too far across the room to see anything. "The legends are really rough, but from what I can make out they'll take the country over the city – even one like New Britain – any day."

The older shifted toward one of the beds, ignoring the frown on Taylor's face as he moved around her, reaching for an open map. Henriksen's eyes never left him, and one dark-skinned hand rested one comfortable inch from the handle of his gun. "I think our best bet is to wait for him at the stable. He needs a horse to run down his victims, and the night guard's death seems to be the event that kicked all this off."

"It would be too easy if he was the replacement." Sam sank into the room's lone chair, blue-green zeroing in on the laptop screen.

Shane darted a nervous glance at Henriksen. _Great. Our fearless leader is getting his money's worth out of that psychology seminar._ Nothing but a chance to study his enemy up close would shut Victor up for this long; utter silence was the mark of his concentration. _He needs to learn to loosen up._

"Nope. Guy's about five-eleven. So unless he's a dwarf that drank his milk, I'd say the new night watchman's in the clear."

The younger brother was slowly pacing back and forth, studying the wall, sneakers cat-silent on thin brown carpeting. "And he hasn't noticed any of the horses being taken out for a nice long run and brought back spattered with blood, why?"

_Good question._

Dean Winchester stilled; Shane watched green eyes go distant with thought, covered with a careless shrug. "I dunno. Maybe he's got glasses."

One that apparently the older brother didn't have an answer for.

And into the thoughtful quiet, the noise came again. _Tap. Tap. T-_

"Okay, what the hell is that?" Shane demanded, shooting up from the bed. It was driving him friggin' _nuts_. Sporadic noise with no pattern, lying just under the level of conversation, and echoing from the adjoining room where the two military personnel were murmuring. _Because no way were Kev and Henriksen letting the Winchesters out of their sight, pardoned or not._

"That's Daniel," the younger Winchester flapped a distracted hand. "We need a flint knife. He's making one."

_He's making one? A flint knife?_

Oh, yeah, these two were going to have a _great_ shot at that insanity plea. _Too bad they'll never see the inside of a courtroom._ Presidential pardons tended to do that.

Kevin, suit long since discarded for more casual slacks and shirt, had lodged himself comfortably between door and window. "Yeah, run this by me one more time?"

"_Polevik,_" Dean began, carrying the map to the wall and stabbing a pin through each corner. "It's a Polish field spirit. Looks like a dwarf, mostly."

Sam took over, shifting his attention from the wall to meet each of their eyes in turn. "Except its hair is prairie grass, and its eyes are different colors. They appear at twilight, and disappear at sunrise, and like to lead wanderers astray, or ride over them if they find them asleep. In this case, we think it's going for door number two."

Something in the way the two brothers fell smoothly into their explanation – like they'd done this hundreds of times – eased Shane, though it really shouldn't have. _He's compelling._ The team had focused on the older brother's charm, but it was clear to him now that Sam was the one who could lull and persuade, sincere in a way his brother's seemingly blunt honesty lacked. _Dangerous._

Dean had finally settled, hands in pockets as he propped up the wall across from the open adjoining door. "They've also been known to murder people who spend too long at the bar before work, and then fall asleep on the job."

Pieces from earlier, recorded conversations fell into place. Shane chewed determinedly at the inside of his cheek, dropping next to Taylor on the bed. She sniffed, flipping blonde hair over one shoulder. "And you were – what – trying to appease it?"

"Well, that's the idea," the younger Winchester sighed, closing the laptop firmly. "Give it what it wants, and it'll go away. Unfortunately, one of the conditions of making the offering is that you have to do it while no one is looking."

"Which your long-range mikes and zoom lenses kinda screwed up," Dean grunted. "So, now we have to try to kill it. Flint knife."

_So they believe this. Which is how they knew that we were watching them._ That was . . . the odds on that coincidence were astoundingly low. Shane would have to put a calculation program to it once he got back to the office. "Nuts," he muttered to Taylor.

His fellow scientist-geek just nodded as the brothers murmured.

Sam moved across the room to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. "Should we bless it, d'you think?"

Spiky hair dipped in a nod. "Just in case, yeah. I'll do it. Should bring the iron knives, too, and silver rounds just in case."

Shane glanced back at Henriksen, the adrenaline-fuelled euphoria of this morning's coup long since turned to something uneasy and cold, curling in his belly. But their team leader, dark eyes fixed on the Winchesters, made no move.

* * *

He could feel a bug making its way slowly up his ankle. Sam resisted the urge to squirm, closing his fingers tighter around the leather cords wrapping the handle of the flint knife.

"How long we gonna sit here?"

Frustration rose in a choking wave; Sam comforted himself with the knowledge that at least he didn't have to deal with Henriksen.

Still. Rubins was almost as annoying.

"Until it shows up," he whispered back, not willing to give himself away no matter how aggravated the agent was making him. "Be quiet." The man hadn't shut up on the ride here, poking questions and insinuations and demands for answers at them both. Dean had just cranked up the radio with an _"I can't hear you. Music's too loud."_

At least it had dried some in the hours they'd been locked in New Britain's jail, so lying in the open pasture to the west of Sunrise Stables wasn't as bad as wrestling with the crow in a muddy ditch had been the night before.

Despite everything, though, exhaustion was tugging at Sam's limbs, beckoning him down. _Can't sleep. It's gonna come right out this way, Dean and Henriksen are gonna herd it out towards me if it tries to take the east entrance. _

His watch gleamed at him in the growing darkness. _8:49 PM._ All the victims had been run down well after full dark had crept over New Britain's streets. _Maybe fifteen minutes._

And they didn't even know if this was going to work. _Which would _really_ help our credibility with Henriksen. _They'd be back in jail before they could say _polevik_.

Flint or not, at least the knife was blessed.

"– _Per Dominum. Amen._"

_The silence that fell as Dean spoke the last word felt like an indrawn breath held at its zenith. Sam was the only one close enough to see the holy water his brother had carefully measured out soak into stone, without leaving a drop behind. _

_It wasn't the blessing. Dean did it._

_Remnants of Gabriel's healing, like the way the air trembled when Dean swore by God's name. Not taking it in vain – but taking it as witness. But it won't stop that Crossroads bitch from dragging him to hell._

_Green slanted his way. "Ready to go?"_

Movement from the stables yanked him free of the memory; lights were coming on as the watchman made his first rounds in darkness for the night. A shadow stretched along cement, giving the man's position away.

"Makes his rounds every half-hour like clockwork until ten." Rubins crawled further up the small incline they were hiding behind. They'd found a place just outside the fenced-in pasture; which meant Sam didn't have to worry about manure.

Against the yellow light shining on the stable's concrete floor, the black outline of the man's form was moving, from one side to the other across the corridor where the horses were housed. _What's he doing? _"Then he monitors the cameras until four." Was the shadow getting . . . bigger?

Rubins apparently noticed it too, perking up a bit. "What is -"

"Shut up!" Sam dragged him down again, eyes straining against the night. A soft neighing snort reached them, followed by the _clop-clop_ of iron horseshoes. _This is it._

And as he'd thought, the _polevik _wasn't bothering to circle around, leaving the stable and heading straight for New Britain. Straight for the two men hidden in the grass.

_Clop-clop-clop-clop-clop_

Gravel crunched under heavy hooves; in the half-light spilling from the open stable, Sam got his first good look at the _polevik._

It wasn't . . . round, as he'd somewhat expected. Instead, the little figure was stocky, but too perfectly proportioned to be a child. The skin poking out from the cuffs of white shirt and pants was a coarse red-brown; long, stiff hair poked ridiculously high off its head, pushed back in the breeze like stalks of grain in a field. If he was close enough to see its face, Sam knew one eye would be electric blue, the other deepest brown.

_Closer. Come on. _

But for all the horse was trotting easily westward toward New Britain, it was going to pass too far by them for Sam to kill it. _Not without moving, anyway._ Dirt cold against his chest, the younger Winchester brother started worming quickly across the field. _Got to head it off. _

"Henriksen's circling around," came the low whisper from the FBI agent. Which wasn't comforting – but Dean would be with him. _No time._

_Move, move, move._

Behind him, something _crackled_ in the growing darkness. Sam froze.

On the horse, the small figure pulled up straight from where it had leant close to the animal's neck, whispering in one ear. The silhouette thrown against the backdrop of stars was suddenly ominous. Sam saw it shift, a little, horse moving with it, and knew that with a flex of leg muscles the _polevik _would throw the horse into a gallop and they'd be too late. _No time!_

Lunging up from the ground, Sam ran the distance to the horse in near-silence, but as he got within range, the _polevik _turned, facing him.

_Oh shit!_

One blue eye seared him, snarl cutting the air. Startled, the horse let out a loud whinny, reins pulling it back and the _polevik _was swearing in harsh cadences and _it was going to get away _–

Sam's reaching fingers caught on loose cloth, clenching in desperation.

At that moment the horse reared, throwing them both to the ground and he rolled, desperate to get out from under flailing hooves; someone shouted, panic thick in the air. _Dean._

Gunshots ripped the night, and the mare screamed, a high horrible sound.

Weight landed on his ribs – Sam had a moment to think _horse_ and _heavy_ and the clear clarity of _I'm dead_, when fingers tightened around his wrist, trying to pry the knife free. _Polevik._

Heels kicking against his sides; Sam bucked, twisting against the dirt as a rush of sound filled his ears. Fingers landed on his throat, digging painfully into skin. _Strong!_

He had a few minutes until his air would run out – Sam heaved, struggling to bring up the hand clenching his knife. A roaring filled his ears – and then the weight was gone, familiar hands tugging him upright. "Sam?"

His eyes caught on the _polevik_, crouched feet away where the shotgun blast had blown it off him, hissing through sharpened teeth as muscle coiled. Sam shoved his brother, bringing up the knife as the creature leaped. "_Down!_"

Stone slipped through cloth and skin, nicking off bone and sinking deep before snapping, leaving him sprawled half on top of his brother clutching the useless handle. Sam kicked out, sneakered foot finding purchase to push the writhing dwarf back, but not far enough. _We are so screwed – _

A scream rent the air, deafening him, as the _polevik_ fell back onto the grass. Reddish fingers blackened with blood as it clutched the gash in skin and clothing. A hand hooked in Sam's collar, dragging him back with Dean as his brother scrambled away.

The _polevik_ was in pain, but that didn't mean - "Is it working?" Sam gasped. "Did it -"

Which was when the dwarf-like creature _melted._

_

* * *

_

What the fu-

"Okay, _that _wasn't part of our regularly scheduled program." Dean Winchester hauled his brother to his feet, brushing at the dirt spotting his jeans.

Kevin rubbed at his eyes again, aware that the Winchesters were staring as slack-jawed as he, but still feeling like he was an extra in a B-rated horror flick. _Ding, dong, the wicked – whatever – is dead._

The ooze burbled, just a little, and sank further into the dirt.

_Mmm. Ugh. _Kevin swallowed as his gorge rose, moving away from the steam slowly rising into the air. He really wanted to avoid smelling that. Just in case.

Henriksen took a step closer, stick in one hand and cell phone in the other. _Great._ Couldn't let their fearless leader face the goop alone. Kevin squared his shoulders and stepped to the older agent's side. "Who you calling?"

"Taylor," Henriksen prodded the mass with the stick, surprise spilling across his face as it turned out to be more liquid than solid, more viscous than runny. "She might want a sample for analysis."

"Yeah, no kidding." Girl got _giddy_ over her samples and experiments and labwork. Right now, she was holed up with Shane in the surveillance van with the two Air Force types, monitoring both the situation at the stables via remote camera, and the streets of New Britain.

Approaching conversation pulled Kevin's eyes from the gloopy mess that had, five minutes ago, been a living, breathing – something. _Yep, this gets a ten on the wierdometer. _

"Did you know that was going to happen?" The older Winchester was carefully checking over the marks on his brother's neck, face a mix of anger, fear, and displeasure.

Sam's wince wasn't quite hidden by the deepening shadows. "Not . . . exactly."

"'Not exactly'? What does that mean?"

The younger Winchester was touched carefully at his throat, where red prints were blossoming that would undoubtedly darken to finger-shaped bruises in the next day. "Justyna said something about the _polevik_ returning to the Earth if it was killed."

"As a patch of prairie grass and mud?"

_Huh. It does sorta look like mud. Maybe really thin clay._ If clay came in blackish red. And the patch of what he had taken for hair at a distance was the only thing still intact, and obviously a thick thatch of prairie grass.

_My brain is going to break._

This was un-friggin'-believable.

Kevin strapped some mental steel onto his spine, resisting the growing urge to butt-plant right in the pasture and blank out. _Shit like this isn't supposed to exist. It's supposed to be all fairy-stories and folklore._

But if Henriksen could take it with the bare batting of an eye, so could he. That didn't mean he was going to get closer than he had to. Kevin had seen _The Blob_, with a horde of screaming nephews, but still.

Victor folded his phone away, finally rising and moving away from the unidentifiable, sticky mass. Kevin followed. "Now what?" _So glad I'm not heading this one up._ Definite benefits to not being the guy in charge. He smirked.

A sigh emerged; Henriksen pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes with a soft groan. "Now we find a way to explain this case to Zini, without her dumping us all off for a psych eval."

* * *

Coffee in hand, Dean shoved the motel room door closed with one booted foot. The undistinguishable lump under the blankets of one of the beds twitched. "How you feeling?"

He got a cough instead of an answer.

_Good thing I hit the diner._

Dean settled the cup of soup carefully on the nightstand, grimacing at the herbal tea he'd drizzled with honey. _Cannot believe they had some with elm bark. _"Got some stuff for your throat, Sammy. C'mon, sit up."

"It's Sam."

The rasp wasn't intimidating in the slightest. _Shakin' in my boots, here, bro._ "Sit up."

Tousled hair edged free from the blanketed mound, and Dean choked back his anger at the deep bruises on his brother's throat. He held out the cup. "Here. Loaded it with sweet stuff, too. Small sips."

The grimace that crossed Sam's face could have been from either the bitter taste or the irritation against his throat; the younger Winchester's features relaxed as more tea coated his esophagus. "Thanks," he breathed.

Dean plunked down on his bed, eyeing the fading marks. Two days, and the bruises were shading from blue-purple into green-yellow. "So I got a call from Dr. J while I was out. Seems like they've finally managed to get us officially removed from the FBI's most wanted list."

"Bet Henriksen loved that," Sam whispered back, voice scratchy.

A snort escaped him. _He knows what he saw._ "I hope he had a lot of fun trying to explain to everyone else in the Bureau why his case is suddenly nonexistent." _Officious dick._ The others hadn't been quite as bad, as Feds went, but they were bad enough. _Even if that Taylor chick was hot._ Regardless, she fell into one of his automatic turn-off categories, which consisted of demons and authority figures. _And she was a bit of a bitch._

Women who looked at him like they'd be happier to see roadkill didn't exactly get his blood pumping.

"He also said that they should have cleared everything up the NID was stalling in getting our pardons out and wiping our records, but he couldn't be sure."

"So we need to be on the watch for them, now, too?" Weariness shone from blue-green; Dean let the anger curl through him, even though it wasn't aimed at Sam. Sam, who was showing the wear from trying to figure out the deal, and all the whispers of danger from demons and hunters alike. _This . . . sucks._

"Probably not." Dean wanted to lift that burden. It helped that he was being honest. "Daniel thinks they're going to be fully occupied with Cheyenne. We're only a footnote to them anyway." _Exorcisms aside._

"Some good news," Sam snarked. He was probably well enough to get out of bed, but Sam always slept for crap and he was still getting over a near-strangulation, so why make him?

Dean reached for the first of the weapons he'd been laying out during their chat, gun oil, rags and the rest of their cleaning supplies close to hand. He had a few hours of work ahead of him, making sure their gear was in order, and Sam had a book he'd picked up at a used bookstore before they'd skipped town. _Not like we needed to be there to see Henriksen pull out._

And mornings after – sex, hunts, whatever – were always awkward. Might as well avoid it.

A grunt caught his ear; Sam was kicking free of blankets, heading toward the laptop perched in the far corner of the room. Half his attention on the blade whicking over the whetstone in his palm, Dean watched carefully, but Sam dropped into the chair no worse for the wear. "You gonna find us another job?"

A nod as the laptop opened, screen's glow barely noticeable against the sun shining in from open drapes. _He's feeling better._

Dean continued sharpening his knife. With the Devil's Gate releasing a scattered army into the world, they'd have work to do soon enough.

_**Fin**_


End file.
